Houses of Stone

Summary

It is a find of inestimable value for Karen Holloway. The battered manuscript she holds in her hand—written in the nineteenth century and bearing the mysterious attribution "Ismene"—could prove a boon to the eager young English professor's career. But Karen's search for the author's true identity is carrying her into the gray shadows of the past, to places fraught with danger and terror. For the deeper she delves into Ismene's strange tale of gothic horror, the more she is haunted by the suspicion that the long-dead author was writing the truth . . . and that even now she is guiding Karen's investigation, leading her to terrible secrets hidden behind the cold walls of houses of stone.

Book Preview

Houses of Stone - Barbara Michaels

Chapter 1

Literature is not the business of a woman’s life, and it cannot be.

Letter from Southey to Charlotte Brontë, 1837

IF ONLY SIMON WEREN’T SUCH A PRACTICAL JOKER!

The other booksellers with whom she dealt were not given to joking about their profession—as one of them gloomily put it, peddling the printed word to a nation of semiliterates was no laughing matter—and Simon, of all people, ought to have been free of that weakness. He specialized in rare antiquarian books and resembled a romantic novelist’s conception of a dignified elderly European count. But the last time he had summoned her to Baltimore with breathless hints of a fantastic discovery, the treasure had turned out to be the complete oeuvre of Barbara Cartland.

Their friendship was strong enough to survive such episodes; in fact, the ongoing debate between them, marked by withering sarcasm on Simon’s part and heated argument on hers, lent an element of charm to a relationship that was inherently improbable. In every way, Simon was Karen’s exact opposite. He was in his late sixties or early seventies; she was almost forty years younger. He was tall and lean; she was five-five and—to put it nicely—well-rounded. Simon was a self-proclaimed male chauvinist; her academic specialty was women’s literature. She had her doctorate and an assistant professorship at a women’s college; Simon had never mentioned attending a college or university. Yet he was one of the best-educated people she had ever met. He had at least a nodding acquaintance with hundreds of subjects, from baseball to Bartók, politics to Plato, dogs to dendrochronology. He and Karen did not agree on any of the above—except, possibly, dendrochronology. It was hard to start an argument about tree-ring dating.

What was it that had drawn them together and preserved an affection that grew even stronger, despite infrequent contact and violent differences of opinion? Karen pondered the question as she drove along Route 70 toward the Baltimore Beltway. Traffic was light, and she had been over the route so many times she could have driven it in total darkness.

It was dark enough, though the morning was only half advanced. Clouds blustered across the sky, their swollen surfaces pewter-gray. Karen had already switched on the headlights. It wouldn’t dare snow, she thought. Not in April. Not even in Maryland. At least she hoped it wouldn’t dare. The distance from Baltimore to her home was almost a hundred miles, some of it over winding mountain roads, and she had a full schedule of classes and conferences the following day. But she could no more have resisted Simon’s tempting hints than she could have refused food after a month of fasting. He had been typically, tantalizingly vague. No, I can’t possibly describe it. You’ll have to see it for yourself. But if I’m right—and I always am—this is the find of a lifetime for you.

What the devil could it be? A few tentative snowflakes melted against the windshield, and Karen switched on the radio, hoping for a weather forecast—a futile gesture, for there was nothing she could do about the weather anyhow, and she had no intention of turning back. If Simon was pulling another stunt like the Cartland Collection, she would murder him.

Her finger paused in the process of punching buttons as the strains of Eine Kleine Nachtmusik reached her ears. That was one answer to the question she had asked herself about her friendship with Simon. Music. Before she met him, she had never cared for the classical composers, but if you spent time with Simon, you hadn’t much choice. He always had music playing in the background—or, at times, loudly in the foreground, when he raised the volume to hear a favorite passage. Simon considered Mozart the greatest composer who had ever lived, with John Lennon a close second.

What else? Simon’s sense of humor, of course. Even at his most outrageous he was funny. His sardonic view of the world as a planet-sized insane asylum helped steady her whenever some fresh example of stupidity or cruelty sent her adrenaline soaring.

There was another element. She had acknowledged it early in their acquaintance, with some surprise; it had never occurred to her until she met Simon that the attraction between male and female could be an abstract quality, unrelated to age or any other practical factor. He had never done or said anything to make her feel self-conscious or defensive. She knew he never would. It was only a game, a game he played with enormous skill, and one whose archaic rules she had learned to enjoy, though she would never be as good at it as he was.

And, of course, there was their shared passion for books.

Who knows whence such passions derive? Karen sometimes felt she had been born with hers. She had never been more than temporarily distracted by television; she read while she walked to school, while she brushed her teeth, while she dusted and vacuumed. She favored baths over showers, because it was impossible to read under a waterfall. She read the back of the cereal box at breakfast, when her mother refused to let her bring a book to the table. She loved the smell of books, the feel of books, the look of them on a shelf.

Simon felt the same. Unlike some booksellers, he was as interested in the contents of his wares as in the volumes themselves. The Cartland Collection had been an aberration, a joke he could not resist; on several other occasions he had supplied her with books of genuine interest.

What could it be this time? Karen hit the brake as a tractor trailer lunged into her lane. She was nearing the beltway, with its heavier traffic; she had better concentrate on her driving and stop dreaming about fantastic discoveries—the missing, probably apocryphal, chapters of Charlotte Brontë’s last novel, or an unknown poem by Emily Dickinson. Such things did turn up, but not often, and she had already had one big find.

Hers hadn’t been anything so impressive as a lost manuscript by a recognized author, but it had been her own, stemming from the book-collecting mania that had driven her long-suffering family to threats of violence. They didn’t mind (her father explained patiently) having to buy a new bookcase every month. They weren’t annoyed (her mother insisted, through clenched teeth) at having to move a pile of books when they wanted to sit in a chair or use a telephone or set the table. What they objected to were books on the stairs and under her bed and on the piano. The attic was full of books, the basement was full of books, the guest room…

By the time she began working on her doctorate, she had little time for outside reading or for browsing, but she celebrated the completion of her dissertation by going on an orgy of book buying—not in expensive antiquarian stores like Simon’s, but dark musty cubbyholes where the cheapest book was a quarter. It was in one of these shops that she had found the slim volume of poems by the woman who called herself Ismene. It had been tossed into a carton with a number of other battered volumes. The hand-lettered sign read, Two bits each, three for fifty cents.

Even Karen was not tempted by a forty-year-old chemistry textbook or a paperback reprint of Lady Audley’s Secret. (She already had a copy of Lady Audley’s Secret.) But only Karen would have looked twice at the thin volume whose front cover was missing and whose water-stained pages seemed to be glued into a solid mass. She inserted a fingernail at random. Only the edges were stuck together; the book opened.

Later she wondered what her reaction would have been if she had not happened to read that particular poem first. Faulty and faltering though it was, some of the lines had a haunting quality. They have shut me in a house of stone…There is no victory in death—only the mute darkness… Squatting on the dusty pavement, she pried other pages apart, and gradually the importance of what she had found began to dawn on her.

The title page, exposed by the removal of the front cover, was so stained and torn she could only make out two words: Verses and what must be the author’s name or pseudonym: Ismene. There was no date visible, but she had seen other books like this one. It had probably been printed during the first half of the nineteenth century. That was her field—nineteenth-century women’s literature. She had never heard of a writer who called herself Ismene.

She paid her two bits and went home with her discovery. It took her six weeks to search the literature to make certain no such writer was known. It took another six months to prepare her edition of the poems, annotated, footnoted and equipped with all the necessary scholarly apparatus.

Ismene was no Emily Dickinson; her verses were not so sure, and certainly not so enigmatic. In fact, Karen had never been able to determine who she really was. Ismene had to be a pseudonym, derived from the name of the sister of Antigone in the classic Greek drama. Women who aspired to authorship in those early days seldom dared use their own names. If they didn’t hide behind the anonymous By a Lady, they chose masculine or ambiguous names—Currer, Ellis and Acton instead of Charlotte, Emily and Anne. The use of a pseudonym supported the other evidence as to the date of the book—the handmade paper, the printing technique—but it proved impossible to identify even the publisher. The book must have been privately printed, in a very limited edition; the product of a vanity press, paid for by the author herself.

Could Simon’s discovery be something as significant? Crawling along the city streets, slowed by construction and thickening traffic, Karen tried to control her expectations. Yet, she argued with herself, they weren’t completely unreasonable. Women writers had been ignored, snubbed by the literary establishment, for centuries. There must be more of them out there in limbo, waiting to be found. Simon knew her interests. Right up your alley, he had said. You won’t believe it. I can hardly believe it myself… He surely couldn’t be so cruel as to lure her all the way to Baltimore on a wild-goose chase. Simon was no pathetic old man, hungry for her companionship. He had dozens of friends, and he preferred his own company to that of most people.

The shop was on Charles Street, north of the railroad station, in a neighborhood that clung by its fingernails to the crumbling edge of respectability. She had to park several blocks away. Snow drifted down as she walked, fat, feathery flakes that stuck to her eyelashes. Opening the shop door, she cleared her throat and began to sing: These are a few of my favorite things…

The soft music from the back of the shop soared to ear-aching pitch. It was the coruscating aria of the Queen of the Night, from Zauberflöte, and the high notes seemed to drill into her head. Karen covered her ears with her hands. In the shadows at the back she saw Simon sitting behind his desk. A lamp cast Satanic shadows across his lean, sculptured face.

Turn it down! she yelled.

Simon blinked at her. Can’t hear you, he mouthed. But the volume dropped, and he came to her, taking both her hands in his.

How dare you warble sentimental popular drivel at me while the Master’s work is playing?

Karen laughed and let him help her off with her coat. Hanging it neatly on a hook, he remarked, It is damp. Does it snow hard? Perhaps you had better spend the night.

She had done it once or twice before, but she hated putting him out, for he always insisted on giving up his own bed to her and curling his lean length on the living-room couch. She answered, I can’t, I’ve got too much to do tomorrow. The snow doesn’t seem to be sticking. I should make it back all right, if I don’t stay too long.

Simon got the hint. His thin lips quirked in a half-smile, but he said nothing as he escorted her toward the back of the shop. Soft, overstuffed chairs slipcovered in faded chintz, reading lamps, an electric teakettle emitting a cloud of steam, and a time-softened Persian rug furnished a cozy alcove walled with books—Simon’s sanctum, to which only favored customers were admitted.

Karen let out a sigh as she sank into one of the chairs and allowed Simon to serve her coffee and a plate of flaky pastry. She hadn’t realized how tense she was, not only with anticipation over Simon’s mysterious find, but with the constant everyday aggravation and bustle. It all seemed to slip away here; muscles relaxed, unfinished tasks became unimportant, worries faded. The friendly, intimate ambience Simon had created was partially responsible, but the books themselves had an almost physical effect upon her. What they represented was little short of a miracle—contact, as direct as any spiritualist medium could claim, with minds long dead.

Fresh-baked an hour ago, said Simon, proffering the plate. From that Polish bakery around the corner.

Karen waved the plate away. I’m trying to lose weight. You’re putting me off, Simon. I hate it when you do this! Where is it? What is it?

Please. Raising a hand for silence, Simon turned up the volume again. The great basso of Alexander Kipnis filled the room. It was one of Karen’s favorite arias too, but she lacked the skill to listen with the intensity that held Simon’s face rapt. It was a wonderful face, so thin it had the pure, bare beauty of bone. His hair clung to his skull like a cap of polished steel. He was still a handsome man; he must have been knock-down gorgeous when he was young.

The great music faded into silence, and Simon let out his breath. ‘The only music that might without blasphemy be put in the mouth of God himself,’ he quoted.

Mmm. Karen knew the futility of pushing him, but she needed some outlet for her frustration. Wickedly she said, The music is sublime, but you must admit the words are pretty corny. And chauvinist. ‘Keep it up, my boy, and you’ll be a man.’ What about poor Pamina? She trudged through the seven hells with her boyfriend; how come she doesn’t get to be a Mensch too?

Simon bit into a pastry with a vehemence that sent flakes showering down his shirtfront. He brushed them away and said forcefully, You don’t understand the meaning of the word. The German for man, male person, is ‘Mann.’ Mensch means—

Superman.

No! A more accurate translation might be ‘superior person.’ Superior in the sense of courageous, noble, honorable—

Never mind. We’ve discussed this before. You’re just trying to prolong the suspense, Simon. How can you be so mean?

No.

What do you mean, no?

If I show it to you now, you will snatch it and run away, and then we will not have our nice little visit.

Simon!

And also, I would have to call the police to follow you and arrest you for stealing a valuable object.

Valuable? In monetary terms or—

In all terms. He leaned back in his chair. The lamplight shaded his face, deepening the lines around his smiling mouth and hiding his eyes in pools of shadow. He looked like an elegant Art Nouveau Mephistopheles. I have made for lunch my famous goulash. But you do not need to lose weight, you are young and should have a healthy appetite. Have a kalashke.

Resignedly Karen took one of the pastries.

How is Norman?

The fact that Karen’s mouth was full gave her an excuse to delay answering. She couldn’t imagine why Simon was inquiring about her ex-husband. He had been painstakingly polite to Norman on the few occasions when they had met—an unmistakable indication, to anyone who knew Simon, that he didn’t care much for the other man. When Simon liked people he teased them and argued with them. Norman hadn’t taken to Simon either. Karen’s affection for the older man had left him baffled and obscurely uneasy, and he had objected vehemently to her filling the bookcases with those dirty old books. His were all lined up in neat rows, arranged by size instead of subject, with nice clean dust jackets on them.

She swallowed. All right, I guess.

When will the divorce become final?

It is final. I got the papers last week.

You are very calm about it.

My heart isn’t broken, Simon. We were married for less than three years, and I never liked him very much.

What a cynic you have become! He appeared to be genuinely shocked.

A realist, Karen corrected. I fell in love. When I fell out of love, I discovered there was nothing left—not liking, nor mutual respect, nor even forbearance. Do you know what his pet endearment for me was? Baby.

She knew Simon would never understand why that seemingly frivolous habit of Norman’s had enraged her so. His forehead furrowed as he struggled to grasp the idea; then he shrugged it away. It is none of my business. But a young woman like yourself should not be alone.

Simon, darling, you are hopelessly old-fashioned. Karen gave him an affectionate smile. What do you mean by alone—unmarried, or celibate?

That is a vulgar question, Simon said severely.

It is not. I phrased it very genteelly. And you were the one who brought the subject up.

He returned her smile. Touché. Well, then—I certainly would not want you to marry the first lout who asked you.

I’m relieved to hear it. Good men are hard to find. As for being celibate—what makes you suppose I am?

You are not foolhardy. In these times, only a permanent relationship (how I despise that word!) is completely safe. I would know if you had established one. There are, said Simon delicately, certain indications.

Karen gave up. She usually backed away when they got onto this subject. You’re trying to start another argument. I don’t provoke, Simon. Stop trying to change the subject. If you don’t tell me—

Ah, excuse me. I hear the bell ring.

He disappeared around the bookshelf. A customer had come into the shop; Karen heard a murmur of voices and then another tinkle from the bell over the door of the shop. Simon came back, wearing a look of disgust.

Some fool in search of best-sellers. The latest Stephen King, he wanted. As if I would carry such a book.

Ah, said Karen. So there is a type of literature you haven’t read.

There is no type I have not read.

Stephen King?

Certainly. He does what he does very well. I don’t care for what he does. It is a matter of personal taste. I prefer horror to be more delicate—a frisson, a suggestion, instead of a catalog of disgusting details. The whisper from an invisible throat, the shadow where there is no object to cast it, a sudden breath of cold air in a warm room. Don’t you agree?

I don’t read horror stories, Karen said.

‘The Yellow Wallpaper’?

Oh, but that isn’t…Well, yes, it is; but the horror is psychological; it is a brilliant study of a woman retreating into madness from—

Ah, bah. More of your feminist jargon. What does it matter if the victim is a woman being driven mad by the constraints of male-dominated society or an unbeliever tormented by a narrow concept of religion?

It isn’t a question of better or worse, Karen protested. You can’t compare absolute evil; all you can do is fight it whenever it manifests itself.

Precisely what I was saying. The agony is the same and the cause is the same: a rigid moral absolutism that inflicts pain under the pretext of kindness.

What story are you referring to? Sounds like Poe.

No; I doubt you have heard of the author. The story is called ‘The Torture of Hope.’ It is about a prisoner trying to escape from the cells of the Inquisition, only to find, just as he seems to reach freedom, that his captors have allowed him to hope as the ultimate torture. And the worst thing about both stories is that the tormentor is not a perverted sadist. Quite the contrary; the husband and the Grand Inquisitor have noble motives. They wish to save their victims from damnation, by society or by God.

Not just yet. First you must listen to this. Where did I put that book… Turning, he ran his finger along the shelf behind him.

Karen bit her lip. Simon wasn’t being deliberately sadistic either. His attitude was typical of the world from which he had come—Europe between the wars, sophisticated, intellectual, more than a little decadent. Though he had never told her his precise age, he must have been in his teens when his native Vienna had fallen to the forces of evil and his family and friends had vanished into the death camps. The values of that vanished age, remembered by an impressionable boy, were all the more to be cherished because of the horror that had swept them away. Whatever their failings, the aristocrats and intellectuals of old Europe had realized that the deliberate, delicate prolongation of pleasure was an art to be cultivated in all aspects of life, from the enjoyment of sculpture to the appreciation of music, from dining to making love.

You are flushed, Simon said, turning back to her with the book in his hand. Is it too warm? Old people have cold bones; I will lower the heat.

Karen wiped the smile off her face. Maybe Simon was right; she had been alone too long. I’m not too warm, she assured him. I was thinking about…something else.

If it makes you blush I don’t want to hear it, Simon said reprovingly. Now listen.

He had only read a few sentences when the shop door opened again and he went out to attend to the customer, leaving the book open on his chair. This time he was gone for some time. Karen picked up the book. When Simon returned she started and let out a strangled shriek.

Chuckling, Simon took the book from her hands. Where had you got to? Ah, yes. ‘He pressed forward faster on his knees, his hands, at full length, dragging himself painfully along, and soon entered the dark portion of this terrible corridor.’

You startled me, Karen mumbled. Creeping in like that.

Simon raised an elegant eyebrow at her and went on reading. ‘Oh Heaven, if the door should open outward. Every nerve in the miserable fugitive’s body thrilled with hope.’

He started to close the book. You see what I mean. The physical tortures inflicted on the rabbi are never described in detail, only hinted at. It is his mental suffering—

Okay, Karen said. Finish it. Please.

I wouldn’t want to bore you with third-rate fiction.

You did that on purpose. I know he doesn’t make it, but I’ll never sleep tonight if I don’t find out what happens.

Simon did as she asked. He had a sonorous, flexible voice and he knew he read well. He gave the dreadful story everything he had. Scarcely had the poor rabbi reached the gardens and raised his eyes toward Heaven to praise God for his escape than he was clasped in a tender embrace and he realized that all the phases of this fatal evening were only a prearranged torture, that of HOPE. The Grand Inquisitor, with an accent of touching reproach and a look of consternation, murmured in his ear, his breath parched and burning from long fasting: ‘What, my son! On the eve, perchance, of salvation—you wished to leave us?’

They have become jaded—too many chain saws, too many decomposing corpses. And few comprehend that mental torture is the worst of all—the constriction of hope and of ambition.

But that’s what women’s writing is all about, Karen said. That’s the theme of Ismene’s poem. ‘They have shut me in a house of stone.’ She wasn’t talking about a physical prison.

Much of Simon’s business was conducted by mail; drop-in customers were rare, and the dismal weather did not encourage shoppers. They were not interrupted again. However, Simon waited until the stroke of twelve before locking the front door. Karen preceded him up the stairs at the back of the shop, moving slowly so that the necessary deliberation of his own ascent would not humiliate him.

The apartment over the shop was small and a little shabby, but it was impeccably neat—except for the books. They lined the walls, covered all the flat surfaces, stood stacked in uneven piles beside chairs and sofa. Simon turned on the lights and led the way to the kitchen.

The rich, spicy smell of the goulash filled the room. Simon held a chair for Karen and moved back and forth with wine-glasses, a basket of bread, and the steaming tureen. She knew better than to offer assistance.

After they finished eating Simon took out one of his thin black cigars. May I smoke? he inquired.

Karen jumped up. Snatching his plate and hers, she carried them to the sink, and finished clearing the table. Then she sat down and stared fixedly at him. Now, Simon.

With a sigh Simon rose and left the room. The set of his shoulders expressed the resignation of a long-suffering male yielding to feminine whims. When he came back he was carrying a parcel and a clean white cloth, which he spread carefully across the table. Now may I smoke? he inquired, handing her the parcel.

He took her silence for consent; she had realized early on that he would be unmoved by lectures on the dangers of smoking and would regard any comment on his habits as rude and impertinent. In fact, she scarcely heard the question. She was too intent on the parcel.

It was small but bulky. Carefully Karen removed an outer covering of padded cloth to disclose a layer of the inert plastic used by museum conservators. Unlike ordinary plastic, it would not react chemically with fragile substances such as paper and cloth.

Her mouth was dry and her hands shook as she unwrapped the plastic. The object felt like a book. Well, she had expected that, hadn’t she? Something old, something rare…

It wasn’t a printed book. It was a pile of loose papers—a manuscript. If there had been covers, they were missing. The pages were raveled along one side, like mouse-nibbled wool, and the corners were so worn that the shape was more elliptical than rectangular. The lower edge was black and crumbling. She could just make out traces of writing on the topmost sheet, though it was so darkened by time and by disfiguring spots of brown—a condition known in the trade as foxing—that only a few words were legible.

Karen tried to control her voice. I can’t…I don’t…

Don’t be afraid to touch it, it is not as fragile as it appears, Simon said. Except along the edges. The paper is hand-made, lacking the destructive chemicals modern paper manufacturers employ. Well? What are you waiting for? All morning you nagged me to see it, and now you sit with folded hands staring at a blank page.

Not…completely blank. I can read a few words. She turned to face him. Simon. This isn’t a joke, is it? You wouldn’t…

No. A single sharp word; the accusation had hurt and angered him. She held out her hands in silent apology, and his stiff features relaxed as he took them in his. Well, I can hardly blame you. I could not believe it myself at first. But the name is there. Ismene.

Maybe it’s not the same woman. Maybe some other writer used that name. Maybe this isn’t…What is it? More poems? A diary?

It is not a diary, Simon said patiently. It appears to be a novel, or part of one. The first pages are missing, and so are the last.

I don’t believe it!

"What don’t you believe? As a literary form, the novel is two and a half centuries old. Richardson’s Pamela was published in 1740. Also eighteenth-century in date were The Mysteries of Udolpho and The Castle of Otranto. This appears to be an example of the latter genre—the true Gothic novel, as opposed to the so-called Gothics of this century, which bear little resemblance to—"

Don’t you dare lecture me on my own subject!

Simon laughed aloud. So, you are yourself again.

Dammit, Simon, I’ve written two articles on the Gothic novel.

And you are now wringing your hands, Simon said, grinning. How appropriate!

I’m trying to keep them off that book, Karen said, returning his smile. He knew her well; he had chosen the most effective method of calming her. I want to grab it and start reading.

Go ahead. We have all afternoon. And if you care to spend the night, all evening.

Not the original, it’s too precious. I’ll have a copy made… She broke off as she saw his face change, and a wave of genuine physical sickness swamped her. Simon! You are going to let me have it? You wouldn’t show it to me and then take it away? You haven’t sold it to someone else? You couldn’t!

Calm yourself, Simon exclaimed. Let me get you a glass of wine, or—

Don’t treat me like some Victorian lady with the vapors! Oh, all right. I’ll have some coffee. Please, she added sulkily.

He filled two cups and joined her at the table. My dear Karen, you are the first person other than myself to see this. How could I do less? But I can’t let you have it—not now, at any rate. No, don’t speak! You would only say something you would regret. Let me explain.

She seized on the words that offered hope. Not now? When?

After the proper procedures have been followed. Listen to me! Do you have any idea what this battered object is worth? I am talking of money, Karen—crude and vulgar of me, no doubt, but this is how I earn my living, by buying and selling books.

Well, of course. I expected to pay for it, that’s the only way I would… She heard her voice start to rise, and fought to control it. This was business, not friendship. That was how she wanted it. One didn’t take advantage of a friend. How much are you asking for it?

Undeceived by her pretense at coolness, Simon eyed her warily. Are you familiar with the motto of antiquities dealers? ‘An object is worth only what someone is willing to pay for it.’ It is possible to estimate the value of a particular book by studying what comparable volumes have brought in the market. But that’s the problem. With what can I compare this? I could make an educated guess as to what a Brontë or Dickens manuscript might bring; the original manuscripts of known works do appear on the market from time to time. But an unknown, unpublished manuscript by a little-known writer…who knows? The only way to find out is to offer it for sale.

Where? At auction?

He remained maddeningly calm. I could do that, but I won’t. If it sold to a private collector, he or she might not make it available to scholars, which would be a pity. I intend instead to invite bids from major universities and libraries.

I’ll top your highest bid. Isn’t there a procedure for that in your business? Preferred bidder, or something?

Karen— His eyes moved from hers. Following his gaze, she saw that, without being conscious of movement, she had placed both hands on the manuscript, fingers flexed, palms pressing down.

I understand your position, Simon, she said steadily. Now hear mine. The first person to get hold of this manuscript, by hook or crook or legal purchase, will be the one to publish it. If it goes to a university or library, they’ll pick one of their own people to handle it. I wouldn’t have a chance.

You believe you can persuade your college to—

Simon, you’re not listening! Even if the college would put up the money, which is unlikely, there’s at least one other person on the faculty who would lay claim to it. He’d probably succeed, too, because he sucks up to the board and the faculty senate and I don’t. Bill Meyer at Yale, and Dorothea Angelo at Berkeley—to name only two—would kill for the chance to get this. And both institutions have a hell of a lot more money than my college.

Yes, I understand that. But you—

Let me finish. He hated being interrupted, and now she had done it twice. She plunged on, desperately seeking words that would convince him. Do you know what a less scrupulous person would do in my place? Accept your invitation to spend the night, slip you a sleeping pill and sneak out, with the manuscript, to one of those all-night copying places.

Simon’s eyes widened. That would be a despicable act.

Of course. I’d never commit it, but I can think of several other people who wouldn’t hesitate for a second. You of all people ought to know that the definition of legal ownership with regard to old manuscripts is hideously complex. The pages themselves, the physical manuscript, can be bought or sold, inherited, given away. I would be guilty of theft if I stole it. But what about the text—the words? They can’t be copyrighted, they are old enough to be in the public domain. If I had a copy of the text, I doubt very much if you could prevent me from publishing it. I’d sure as hell be willing to take that chance—and so would Bill Meyer, or dear old Joe Cropsey, my favorite departmental chairman. That’s why I have to own it, Simon, and guard it with my life—to keep other people from getting their hands on it. It wouldn’t take more than two hours to have a copy made.

She was breathless when she finished, but she had made her point. Simon was looking very sober. I hadn’t thought of it that way. It is true that there are other interested parties. Your own fault, Karen; you were the one who made Ismene famous. How many copies of your edition of the poems were sold? How many articles on her have appeared since then?

Karen didn’t answer. It was particularly embittering to realize that if she hadn’t made Ismene famous, in the scholarly world at least, she wouldn’t have to fear competition. On the other hand, Simon would not have called her first if she had not been the acknowledged authority. The manuscript itself might have been overlooked, discarded, if she had not publicized that vital name. The very idea made her break into a cold sweat.

Where did you get it? she asked.

"From a trunk in a dusty attic, of course. Isn’t that the traditional source for such finds? In fact, most discoveries of this nature do come from places like that. Remember the first half of the Huckleberry Finn manuscript that was found a few years ago? Mark Twain had sent it to a friend, who evidently mislaid it; it remained in a trunk in Gluck’s attic for over a century."

Karen smiled sweetly. If you think you are going to distract me, Simon, you are sadly mistaken.

Simon sighed. The house from which this manuscript came belonged to an old gentleman who was a pack rat, like his ancestors before him. When he died, the new owner called in a local auctioneer and told him to clear the place out in preparation for a sale. The auctioneer is a man with whom I’ve dealt before; local dealers often consult me about books and manuscripts. He and the owner agreed to let me handle this particular item, since it was—shall we say—somewhat esoteric.

Reviews

Gothic romance is a fun genre for me and this book proved to be a good one by Michaels. As an English lit major, I enjoyed the background story and had met those professors, I am sure. Houses of Stone certainly does show its 1990s roots, but as long as you remember there aren't cell phones and ubiquitous access to the internet, it is easy to sink into the story. I sort of wish that the "found novel" really existed as I think I would have enjoyed it.There are enough plot twists to keep me going, from love interests to dastardly deeds. I think an important quotation from the book is "A house of stone can be either a refuge or a prison." Reading the book lets you see both sides of the story.If you like romantic suspense, I suspect you'll like this book.

3.5 stars-Enjoyed the book but thought the ending was rushed. The rest of the story went at a a nice pace and then it was like Michaels woke up & said oops my deadline is today & just threw the ending together in a couple pages. The fast batch job at the end just didnt flow with the easy pace of the rest of the book.

Michaels delivers a poor-man's Posession with Houses of Stone, and I mean that in the best possible way. This has everything I like in a light read: crumbling mansions, literary references, buried documents, near-murders and very old bones. If you like This Kind of Thing (and I do) this is Very Good at This Kind of Thing. If you don't (like This Kind of Thing, that is) I suggest reading a different book.

Karen Holloway, a young English lit professor is given the opportunity of a lifetime. Her close friend, Simon, has procured a novel by an obscure 19th century gothic novel, written by a woman. Karen is determined to find out the truth about the woman behind the mask.This is one of Barbara Michaels best novels. The characters are fully developed and likeable. Although you know a romance will develop between Karen and someone, it is up in the air which man is a hero and which is a villain.What I especially like about Barbara Michaels is how she uses characters of various ages, not just twenty-somethings. This is a novel to read again and again.